


Nothing Else

by Hyena_Poison



Series: Bellwether Sons [1]
Category: True Detective
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Use, Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:07:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1405966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyena_Poison/pseuds/Hyena_Poison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marty doesn't always make the best decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Else

Hell if you know why you ended up here, knocking on this door. There’s no moon and no stars, blind behind the storm humidity promises. But as you sweat beneath a porch light, you know just how much of a lie that is. You want a distraction—from Maggie and the girls and the questions and those looks across the dinner table—so you drive, down empty roads and past bars with no real intent. Until you realize you’re two streets away from the door you’re standing at now. 

Parked at the curb, motor idling, you should probably make a decision. You know what’s waiting for you here, and you know what’s waiting for you at home; looking at dead bodies with a depressing asshole or arguing—either way you don’t think you’ll sleep. So you stick your keys in a pocket and cross that nicely cut grass, hit the door with the heel of your hand a couple times. 

It takes the man a while, which, fuck him, because you know he’s looking out, trying to decide whether to open the door or not. But he does, just enough for you to see his face, and shit, maybe this was a bad idea; Rust’s got that expression like he’s a thousand miles away, eyes red and slow when they look at you. You want to step back, because God Almighty, he stinks of sweat and cigarettes; but you lean away instead, grin, because you don’t exactly smell like a daisy, either. 

You start to say something and he just walks away, leaves the door half-open behind him. Fuck. He’s in a one of his moods, and you should just go home or to a bar or anywhere that isn’t Cohle’s doorway. You’re here now, though; you mumble, “Sure, Marty. Come on in,” and push the door shut behind you. 

Pictures, notes, black-line sketches stuck to the wall; books in stacks, neat so the spines show. Not even a TV—why the fuck did you come here? To think, maybe. About a dead woman wearing antlers, another covered in leaves and muck from the river. Follow the twists until you see a pattern.

Rust hasn’t said a word, doesn’t seem to notice you, like you’re not really there at all. He’s in the middle of the mattress, knees up and back against the wall; you can’t see what book he’s reading. Probably some circle-jerk psycho shit.

“Want one?” You hold up the six-pack you’d brought in with you; no answer, so you shrug, pull up a fucking lawn chair, face the wall and pop open a can. Normal people have furniture and televisions and landscapes hanging on their walls, but you’ve had this conversation before—Rust just pulls some philosophical bullshit out of his ass and throws it at you. 

Some days he won’t shut his mouth, others you can’t get him to open it. You think maybe it’s not so bad, you can both just go on acting like nobody else is there. Two more beers and you think that maybe this is weird. Three beers, and you know this is awkward; can’t pretend you’re alone in another man’s house. And it bothers you, not having Rust in your sights, that animal itch when you know someone’s close and can’t see them. 

It’s another beer before you can turn the chair around to face him. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” You don’t expect an actual answer, so you prepare for him to say something batshit crazy or about how there’s something wrong with every person, with mankind as a whole. It’s better than nothing. But all you get is a look—flash of white, dark eyes watching and avoiding you all at once—and then he’s back to reading. 

Fuck this, and fuck yourself while you’re at it, because this was a dumb fucking idea. But mostly, fuck Rust. He’s going to tell you, and you’re not sure why you want him to because usually the less he talks, the happier you are. Maybe you’re bored; maybe you just want to get this out of the way so you can get some work done. Maybe it’s how shitty he looks, like he hasn’t slept in days. Really, you think, it’s probably just the alcohol.

So you get up from the lawn chair, dump yourself onto the mattress and try not to spill your beer. Resting on an elbow, legs over the side, you wonder how this motherfucker could be any more depressing. You’re really close, almost shoulder-to-shoulder—not that Rust has any idea of personal space anyway—and you can feel the heat coming off him up and down your arm.

He studies you, eyes glassy and red and so fucking bleak. You give him a shit-eating grin, ask, “That got any pictures?”

Rust just stares at you, nothing on his face but sweat; and you think, fuck him, you’re trying here. You make to sit up and he looks back at the book, says in a quiet drawl, “Not that kind of book.”

“Huh. Okay then, what kind is it?” You ask, because fuck this silent, depressing bullshit. He sighs like a surrender, glances at you from the corner of his eye, letting you know you aren’t getting anything over on him with this. But he starts talking, slow and monotone like the rattle of a motor, about this book and you pretend to give a shit. You don’t listen, not really, just watch him between sips.

You’ve never looked at him, not really, or you would have noticed things. Like the arch of his cheekbones, the hollow beneath them. Long eyelashes over red-rimmed eyes; the way his hair curls against his forehead. Sweat on tan skin, muscles moving beneath. 

Sometimes, you make bad decisions. Maggie say’s it an impulse control thing, but you really don’t want to think about her now. Sometimes, you do fucking stupid things. You guess this time isn’t any different and drop your cheek to his arm, set the beer down. Reach up, run a finger over his cheek, across his jaw, down his neck to the dip where his collarbones meet. He’s so completely static, watches you with a foggy awareness without turning his head. You drop your hand, and he looks away; a few seconds, Rust starts back up like you never interrupted him. 

“Rust,” you say, sitting up to lean closer; he keeps talking, and you repeat his name. He doesn’t stop until you pull the book from his fingers, toss it across the room. Still, he won’t look at you; at the book you threw, pictures on the wall, empty corners. Anything but you. “Rust,” you say again; move a hand to his opposite side so you can bend over him.

Rust uncurls, flattening his shoulders against the wall and tenses to move away. He stops, eyes focusing on the hand you press to his chest—it’s firm, steady, and Rust could break all those fingers in a fucking second if he wants to. He’s motionless, scanning your hand, your lips, the corner of an eye, and back to your hand. Mouth barely open, you can hear an uneven breath, feel his heart pumping blood beneath your palm. 

Cicadas and crickets like white noise, a car passing by, and you wonder what the fuck you’re doing. Exactly what you want to happen here. Offhand, you can think of maybe a hundred reasons this is a fucking stellar bad idea. You have to remind yourself sometimes, not to stick your dick in crazy; and Rust sure as shit doesn’t fall on the normal side of mental health. There’s the fact that Rust is a man, and you’re not sure what that means about you—questions you are not even going to consider. You think about Maggie, how she doesn’t wait up for you anymore, how you didn’t tuck your girls in tonight—

But there’s heat under your fingers, warm skin, the rise and fall of a chest; and you think about leaving, you really do—you’re starting to ache though, each heartbeat a building discomfort. Rust hasn’t left yet; you taste beer on your lips when you wet them, and he decides to meet your eyes. He’s fucked up on something, the same as you’re drunk, and when he blinks it’s slow and heavy like the edge of sleep. You’re not going to ask what he’s on, what’s making his pupils pinpoint, his breathing slow; you think it’s probably good, better this way. You can both make excuses. 

Been still too long—Rust looks down, starts to shift away again, your hand sliding across his chest as he moves. You’ve got to make a decision here, and you know you should let him get up, let him walk away and you can just leave. Go home, sleep beside your wife, surrounded by walls that aren’t bare except for black-and-whites of dead girls. Instead, you press his shoulder to the wall, rest a hand on his hip. Move your face closer, breathe his air, drag your teeth over his bottom lip. 

Fucking bad decisions, man. 

Rust turns his face away, and you settle for his jaw and neck—bite, taste salt and smell the bayou on his skin. Feel him swallow against your tongue, breath against your ear as he exhales. Move your hand from his shoulder, down his chest and stomach, the wife-beater sticking to his sweaty skin. It’s hot—air muggy and dense, and why the fuck can’t Rust have a decent AC unit?—so you pull off the polo, throw it on the lawn chair, toss your undershirt after it. Rust watches you, eyes blue and fucking deep, and you tug at his shirt until he shrugs it off. He moves, not away, but to slide down onto the mattress; you can’t help but appreciate what you see—how dark his skin looks against all the white in the room, muscles shifting in smooth choreography. 

It kind of hits you, while you watch him, that you have no fucking clue how to go about this. Women, you know; you’ve done that more than enough to be confidant. Rust, you repeat to yourself, isn’t a woman—he’s smaller than you, narrower, more fluid—but there’s no confusion about what he is. It’s in the hard muscle under your hand, the angles and lines, the perfect lack of delicacy. 

Take a second to adjust yourself through your jeans, cross the mattress on your knees and straddle him. Fast, even as fucked up as he is, Rust pulls you down, no gentleness as he grips the back of your neck. No gentleness in his lips either as he kisses you—hard and deep and fucking hungry. He bites your lip until you taste blood, and you see him looking back at you, eyes half-open and aware. And shit, it goes right through your lungs and belly like hot iron, dizzy as blood rushes from your head. 

Grab a handful of his hair, soft and thick between your fingers, and yank back his head, press your lips and teeth down the line of his throat. You can hear his breath hitch, feel his pulse against your lips, the heat of his skin when he arches to meet your chest; ribs beneath your palm, the knotted mess of scars on his side. Still, his hand’s against your neck, nails digging in, and you don’t care what marks he leaves—you’ll be leaving some of your own; bites and bruises you want him to feel for days. 

Sit up, shaking off Rust’s hand and try to catch your breath. He doesn’t say a thing, regards you with a blank face. Except you know he’s worked up—cheeks red, breathing fast, the hardness you feel pressing against your leg. And you want to stay for hours, just like this, until you have all the good bits memorized. Smears of blood down Rust’s neck and chest from your slit lip. The light from his single lamp yellow against clammy skin, the cicadas and crickets going on forever, thunder miles away. Rust has other plans, though; he props up on an elbow, other hand palming the hardness in your jeans. 

And Jesus fuck. You groan and press into that touch, watch a grin creep into his eyes. And you look away, to the little figure on a cross over Rust’s mattress, watching you grind against your partner’s hand. Jesus fuck. 

You pull his arm out from under him, let him fall back against white sheets, pin his wrist above his head, try to flatten yourself against his body. A hand under his knee, you drag his leg up and over yours, and open-mouth groan as you crush your hips together. And then you move, pushing against him, white-hot and fucking glorious; Rust’s leg hooks over the back of your thigh, lifting his hips to meet your thrusts. You try to hold your breath, stop your panting so you can hear him—how his breath stutters with the contact, quiet sighs and shallow gasps. Rust grips your lower back, nails driving sparks up your spine, holds your eyes and slurs, “Marty”, so low and breathless you almost miss it under the rain hitting the roof. 

You’re gone, fuck, you’re gone. You grind harder against him, muttering, “Fuck, fuck,” over and again until it’s not even words, just grunts and sounds. Rust digs the fingers of his pinned hand into yours, using his other hand to pull your mouths together, grip in your hair the perfect kind of painful. You raise up a little, watch his face, run a hand up his stomach to his chest, press a thumb to his neck to feel the bang of his heart. 

Heat’s building in your lower belly, and there’s no rhythm as your hips buck and jerk. You find yourself asking, “What do you taste, huh? What do you taste?” Rust doesn’t answer, and fuck, it doesn’t matter because you can’t breathe and your vision goes white, shaking as that heat rides over you, melts you. 

When you come back to yourself—foggy and sluggish and loose—you’re flat against Rust, head between his shoulder and neck. His breath huffs against your ear, and you slide off him, leave an arm across his chest, feel the sticky wetness in your pants where you’re pressed against the mattress. You feel heavy and clumsy, the weight of alcohol and exertion quieting your brain. Rust mutters your name again, and you curl your arm up, run nerveless fingers through his hair. Eyes closed, you pull the sheet over you both, drift off with the smell of sweat and rain. 

 

When you open your eyes, the rain has stopped; the sound of frogs and insects, the tinny echo of a neighbor’s radio entering from an open window. Hours before the sun rises, there’s only the light from a streetlamp, orange and filmy through the blinds. Your skin feels tacky with sweat and humidity, a thin sheet sticking to your back. Rust’s sheet, from Rust’s living-room mattress, you know. Head pounding, you sigh and roll over, feel the drying mess in your jeans as a dirty reminder. The bed beside you is empty, cold where Rust had been; and you’re too fucked up to really deal with this right now, all the things that come with what you’ve done—what you’ve both done—and you ease into that fog between awake and asleep. 

And your eyes drift, to the clothes and beer cans and books on the floor, to the white walls steady filling up with case photos and rambling connections. To a figure in the kitchen, silhouetted in the flickering amber of a nearby streetlight. Rust, staring at the wall, pictures and notes you can’t see from here. You watch him burn through a cigarette, the glow from the fire shifting shadows on his face as he lights another. The red ember flares between his lips, smoke runs out his nose, and he stares—just Rust and the dead and the night. Like there’s nothing else, no one else, in this world with him. And as you close your eyes, you think maybe that’s the truth.


End file.
